One Second
by graceofgod
Summary: Ghosts, Goats and Yodelling, Winchster Style...
1. Chapter 1 Only Child

_**Only Child**_

You know, there are times when I really wish I was an only child. Not many, 'cause, ya know, he's my brother and sometimes I think Bobby was right when I was sixteen and he said _"Boy, you got 'look out for Sammy' tattooed into your damn brain" _while he was stitching up the hole the wall'd put in my head after I'd jumped in between Sammy and a pissed-off spirit and got thrown into said wall for my troubles. But there are times when I really, _really _wish I was an only child, and this had to be pretty much at the top of that list.

For a brief moment as I sprawl flat on my back blink away the spots that dance in front of my eyes from the flash of that damn camera phone, I consider fratricide as an option, but then that tattoo beats itself across my brain again, and the kid goat I'm holding picks that instant to struggle, kicking out wildly at my stomach. It's only got small hooves, but it's strong and they're hard and sharp and the blow forces a muffled grunt from me. My brother drops the phone, frowns at me but I shake my head, snarl a quick, "Settle down," at the baby animal and push myself back to my feet, wincing as I feel a trickle of heat tickle it's way down my belly from the deep scratch the hooves left behind. Sam doesn't see it, or if he does he knows as well as I do how much time we _don't _have and chooses – wisely – to ignore it for now. He turns, leads the way out of the barn now burning fiercely behind us but I know he isn't moving fast enough so I yell frantically at him, apprehension colouring my voice.

"Get a move on, Sa – "

The tanks of fertiliser and red diesel explode halfway through his name, and the blast picks us up and throws us in different directions, the goat bleating pathetically in my arms as I wrap myself around it, trying to protect us from the wall of heat I can feel scorching hair and skin on the back of my neck. One second of flight that lasts forever, time slowed to a fire-lit crawl – and I reaffirm my vow to never, _never _get on a freakin' plane again, no matter how many demons are trying to crash it – and all I can do is watch the ground come hurtling up to meet me, as I try to keep track of Sammy. He hits hard, rolls a few times in a flailing tangle of long arms and legs, tumbling through the tall grass of the field surrounding the barn. There's no grass to cushion my landing, just a wide expanse of cracked asphalt that hits me like the end of the world and I feel a rib or two break with a dull snap_,_ hear the sickening crunch of my shoulder dislocating in an flare of white-hot pain before my head slams against the ground and then… nothing.

~*~

In my world, it's rarely a good thing if something _licks _you awake. I lie still as I try and claw my way up from the bottomless well of black that claims me, tries to drag me back down into its endless depths, but the tongue rasps across my cheek again, hot and slimy and accompanied by a scared whimper that sounds a little like…

"Sammy?"

My eyes snap open but I can't see anything, and I wonder why my brother is bleating. Then it comes back, sort of, my fuddled mind trying to sort out confused memories of barns and spirits and goats and fire.

"Sshamm?"

I mushily wonder why I sound like I've just drunk Jack, Jim and Jose under the table and try to sit up, and the world I can't see tilts away from me in a flood of pain that surges from my chest, shoulder and head and I can't hold on, slipping back into that comforting darkness, taking the fuzzy memories with me to play out in an in-flight entertainment that I could really do without.


	2. Chapter 2 Clucking At Goats

_**A/N: Reading through this to get it ready for posting, I realised I've been Kripke'd. I wrote it in the break between Seasons 3 and 4, and I'm a spoilerphobe, so the ears thing? MINE! Nothing else is... except the goat. Again. Oh, and, as usual, I'll post music credits at the end of the story rather than by chapter. **_

_Three hours earlier_

The Impala slows, crawling into the empty driveway as I let her coast to a stop, staring at the deserted farmhouse in front of us. It's huge, magnificent, awesome – and it's falling down. The roof sags so far in places a god could use it as a soup bowl, and the chimneys, all four of them, list threateningly at different angles. There isn't a single window that doesn't have at least one smashed pane, the curtains long since rotted away so that the tattered remnants frame black, gaping holes glaring out balefully at us. Beside me Sam gulps audibly. I quickly suppress the shiver of fear that tries to ripple down my spine and turn, smirking at him.

"What's the matter, Sammy, scared of the big ol' haunted house?"

He glares back at me and replies solemnly,

"No more than I was of the monster in my closet."

I can't really answer that, and anyway, he truly is scared, I can see it in the way he ducks his head to let his long hair fall, masking his eyes. Something about this hunt, something about this place has freaked him out, and it's starting to get to me too. I can't stop the second shiver. Neither of us moves to get out of the car, reluctance surrounds us making us hesitate. We both just sit there silently, staring at the ruined house and I know he's wishing he could get the memory of the crime scene photos out of his head just as much as I am. I don't dare blink, as if the images will drown me in the dark; suffocate me in the blood and horror of the murders that took place thirty years ago.

So instead I rake my stare over the building, until it catches on the letter box beside the door, one of the old fashioned iron cupboards with a flap in the top that was once bolted to the wall and now sits, leaning at a crazy angle against it. The name painted neatly across the flap is barely legible now, eighty-four years of weather have worn much of the paint away, but it's enough to read the name already familiar from hours of research. _H__awkes' Hill Farm,_ seeing the faded, flaking letters conjures a new picture into my head, one without blood or death, but it's this that makes me scramble from the car, bile rising in my throat. I swallow it down, spit out the bitter taste and lean back against the car, shaking a little, sucking in the cool air and trying to get the picture of the three generations of the Hawkes family, sat or stood in front of the house, smiling at the camera and squinting against the bright sun light out of my head.

The car shifts against me, a door creaking loudly.

"Dean?"

"I'm fine."

I shove myself away from the car, let the walls drop into place again as I swipe one hand across my cheek, wiping away the moisture there.

"Let's just get this done."

My brother watches me for a moment longer, but the story of this place, of the family who built it, lived in it, and died in it has effected him just as much as it has me, so he lets it go, joining me at the trunk as I glance habitually around before opening the hidden compartment and pulling out a pair of shotguns and a bandolier of salt-shells. I hand him one gun and he checks it quickly, automatically, long fingers familiar and easy as he breaks the barrel, rams home the shells and snaps the piece together again. He stuffs a handful of spare shells in his jacket pockets, grabs the can of salt and a book of matches, all of it in silence. There isn't much to say, none of the usual banter that eases the tension before a hunt seems appropriate now and the slam of the trunk as I close it is loud enough to make him jump just a little.

I heft the shotgun in my hand, settle the bandolier comfortably across my shoulder and listen to the gas in the can held in my other hand slosh about as we start towards the house. He falls in behind me, close enough that I imagine I can feel his breath on the back of my neck and I know we're too close, that we present a single, perfect target for anything or anyone out to get us, but I don't say anything. It's not that long since the open space at my back literally hurt, not that long at all since I spent my nights listening to Dad's slow, steady breathing coming from the bed where Sam should have been. I can't help but remember that picture again, recalling the subtle confusion in my brother's voice as he told me the story, how Daniel Hawkes came back to his childhood home ten years after leaving suddenly and murdered his family in their beds, dragging his brother out to the barn and literally tearing him to pieces before he threw himself from the hayloft. The entire Hawkes family died that night, but they'd left something behind, a spirit that had killed twenty-one people since. Two a year, every ten years, the first on the anniversary of the day Daniel Hawkes ran away, the second six days later, on the anniversary of the night he'd returned, ten years later.

After tonight it was never going to kill again.

We slip quietly onto the long, wrap-around porch, boots nearly silent as I hand my brother the gas can and my shotgun, and pull my lock picks from my inside pocket. As far as we know, no-one is here now but the farm has been sold, making our job infinitely harder, and I work quickly, grinning a little as the tumblers click into place. I stand, slide the picks back into their case and slap it victoriously against Sam's chest. He rolls his eyes and hands me the gun and the gas and I push through the door, my smile fading away as the familiar cold sweeps over me, another mask, another wall between me and the world. Every sense sharpens, sounds become razor-edged, the gloomy room barely lit by the quarter-moon outside becomes crystal clear and the wooden stock of my shotgun is warm and comfortable in my hand. We pause, just inside the door, and my lips tighten, as I almost growl at the sight of a neat stack of suitcases waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

I curse the rushed research that's led us here, unprepared for the place to be occupied already, wishing we'd had the time to do some proper re-con and figure out a way to get the new owners of the haunted farm out, but this is the anniversary of the night Daniel Hawkes came back. We'd already been too late to save the real estate agent, killed when he fell from the bridge across the narrow gorge that marked the boundary of the property, and I would damn my soul to hell before I would let anyone else die here. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache and I jerk my head at Sam, sending him up the stairs to get whoever has moved in, out. I stop him for a heartbeat with my hand on his arm.

_Sammy, be careful._

I don't need to say it aloud. He nods, stares intently at me for a moment.

_You too._

Then he's gone, edging up against the wall where there is less chance of the steps creaking and giving away his presence. I force myself to turn away and head deeper into the house, searching for the ancient scythe Hawkes had impaled himself on, that had been hung on the wall as a macabre decoration by the first victim of the spirit. I hear a muffled shriek above me and tense, worrying about my brother, glad he's the one dealing with the no doubt terrified woman he's just woken up. It takes a few minutes, but he leads her down the stairs, giving a low whistle to grab my attention and subtly flashing the badge he's slipped through his belt. We're federal marshals tonight then, searching for the dangerous fugitive we believe might be hiding in the farm. Behind Sam comes a woman, and oh my god I wish I'd been the one to go and deal with her because she is without a doubt the most gorgeous creature I've ever laid eyes on, short, dark hair that spikes around a pale face and velvet-soft eyes – that are fixed adoringly on my brother's back. He smirks at me, and I ignore him, tipping a quick nod to the woman as they step down to the ground floor.

"Take her out to the car, deputy. I'll keep looking."

His smirk turns into a scowl as she turns her attention to me when she hears me call him 'deputy', her gaze reconsidering. I smile at her, ignore the death-glare Sam's aiming at me and gesture at the door. His glare turns into that intense stare again, and I nod at him, give a one-sided shrug and a lop-sided grin.

_I'm always careful._

He rolls his eyes, escorts the woman out through the door and I turn back to the house, prowling through the warren of rooms, picking my way carefully over the rotten floorboards, cringing every time they shift beneath me. Seventy-four years of neglect has turned the once proud house into a death trap, and I have to wonder just what the woman who brought the place thinks she can do to restore it. I shrug again, it doesn't really matter to me, as long as we totally can the spirits ass before anyone else gets hurt, I'm good. I pause in the doorway to a large room, grinning quickly at the sight of a long, slightly curved, wooden handle with a lump of rusty metal attached to the end, hanging over the huge fireplace.

"That's why they pay me the big bucks."

But I only get to take one step into the room before the temperature plummets, the end of my victorious mumble misting into a cloud of vapour.

"Crap."

Another cloud, but this time it doesn't dissipate, it shifts and roils and turns into a damn face, right in front of mine. I pull back, start to lift the shotgun, and the face made out of my own breath opens its mouth and screams, so loud I'm certain my ears must be bleeding. Unable to stop myself, I drop both can and gun, desperately clapping my hands over my ears. The sound goes on and on, getting louder and impossibly louder until it literally batters me back away from the room and I stumble, my head spinning under the onslaught, my feet tangling together to bring me crashing to the ground.

As soon as my ass hits the deck, the scream stops and I can just about hear my brother above the ringing in my ears as I huddle against the wall, holding my head because it feels as if that scream hasn't stopped at all, it's just moved inside my skull and is working on splitting my head in two.

"Dean! Dean, oh god. Hey, hey, are you okay? Dean?"

A blurry face shoots forward, stops inches from me and I flinch, half-expecting it to scream or something. Instead it slowly clears, resolves into Sam, all wild hair and scared eyes as he grabs my arms and hauls me upright. The world spins around and I tilt over in the other direction, falling into his strong grasp, trying to get it together enough to say something to take that fear out of his eyes.

"M' f''n, Ss'm."

It doesn't work too well. I shake my head to try and clear it, wincing as I realise that maybe that isn't such a good idea, so I lean back against the wall, waiting for the world to slow down enough to let me climb back on. Sam holds on to me, his long fingers digging into my arms but since he's about all that's holding me up right now, I let him. After several long painful minutes, as the echo of the scream gradually recedes, I lift my head without it falling off, and push against his hands.

"Lemme up, S'mmy."

Okay, so I'm not quite clear yet, and the world still spins lazily around me, but he lets me up, steadies me and stands right next to me.

"Foun' the scythe."

He gives a huff of laughter at my declaration, and I elbow him lightly in the side.

"You c'n go get it, college-boy."

Sam pulls a face at me and I resist the urge to stick my tongue out at him. We stand and eye the doorway for a moment, my shotgun and the gas sitting nonchalantly just inside, then we sigh almost in unison, and he brings the shotgun up to aim it steadily at the room, nodding to me. I ease forward, keeping out of his shot, shoulders tight, ready to jump back at the first hint of cold, at the first wisp of vapour. It never comes. I reach my gun, stoop and grab it, cock it and carry on into the room. By the time I reach the fireplace I'm sure freakin' rats are running up and down my spine, and I close my eyes as I reach up for the scythe, cringing as I pull it from the wall.

Nothing happens.

I turn back to the open door, feeling more than a little sheepish and my heart damn near stops as I see the once gorgeous woman standing right behind my unsuspecting brother. Her face is twisted into a silent scream, ugly and hateful and broken by the blade buried in her throat, its twin raised directly above his back.

"DROP!"

Sam doesn't hesitate, just face-plants on the floor at my shout and I lift the shotgun and fire it, breaking into a run in the same movement. The salt pelts the woman's face and she staggers back, wailing as the spirit possessing her reacts to the condiment. Sam rolls over, adds his own blast to the smoke twisting up around her as her skin burns and she shrieks, falls back into a crumpled heap and is still, the spirit driven out of her. I stumble to a halt next to my brother as he pushes himself shakily to his knees, his shoulders slumped in dejected failure. I pat him awkwardly on one of those shoulders; waiting as he sniffles a little, not knowing what the hell I can say to make it better when the guilt is gnawing at my guts too.

Finally, Sam wipes his nose on his sleeve and shuffles to his feet, turning angry, determined eyes to me.

"Let's finish this thing."

I nod. It's easier to just agree when he gets on a roll, even though I'd really like to just go back to the motel on the edge of town and sleep for a week while he researches exactly what we need to do to stop this spirit. Maybe I'd sleep for a fortnight. Then the goblin who'd taken up residence in my head might have given up on his ambition to become a drum soloist. We trudge back out of the house, carrying the scythe between us, since it's a damn heavy lump of wood and metal. We haul it to the barn around back of the farm, and I wonder tiredly if we're following in Daniel Hawkes' bloody footprints as he dragged his brother struggling through the night.

The barn makes the house look like a palace. Most of the roof is actually missing, the walls are as much thin air as they are wood and when Sam hauls the big, sliding door open it rolls along its sliders and falls off, landing with a crash next to him. He looks at it, turns and blinks at me shocked, and I just smile back weakly, all too aware of the images of his feet sticking out from underneath the heavy slab of wood and metal that are playing out in my head. The goblin pulls off an impressive drum roll to accompany them as my heart slams wildly against my ribs. He lets out a shaky breath, part sigh, part hysteria and lifts a trembling hand to shove his hair back out of his eyes.

"Jesus,"

He mutters as he shifts his grip around the scythe, pulling it – and me – with him as he squares his shoulders and strides purposefully through the great hole where the door used to be. I glance down at the door as I pass it, look back to see him glaring at it, eyes a little too wide, a little too bright in the dark.

"Ding dong the witch is dead," I mutter in a sing-song sotto voce, just loud enough for him to hear and he twists round, brow furrowed as his gaze darts from me to the fallen door a few times before settling on me. I smile brightly, hoping he can't see how much of a lie it is but he stares blankly at me and I keep grinning at him until his lips twitch and he snorts, shoulders shaking a little as he turns back with a muttered, "Jerk."

We walk on into the barn, and my reply dies on my lips as the atmosphere crushes in on us. It's cold inside, more than just the cold of an old, ruined building in autumn, even more than the cold of a wayward spirit. It's the cold of blood spilt when it should have been cared for, the cold of secrets and hatred and family turning on one another. I shiver, hunch my shoulders up and my mouth goes desert-dry as I realise that inside, the roof is intact, the walls solid, hanging with a truly terrifying assortment of blades and tools.

"Sam. You seein' this?"

He nods at me, not looking round, his gaze turned up to the hayloft a good thirty feet above our heads. I gulp, somehow knowing that we're standing exactly where Daniel Hawkes died and my eyes drift down, searching out the dark stain on the floor. My stomach churns as I see it, guilt turning bitter in my mouth as I look back at my brother.

_I never should have come to Stanford, Sammy. If I hadn't, then maybe Jessica would still be here, and you'd still be rockin' the white picket fence with her. Hell, maybe you'd be married by now, 'cause I saw the way you looked at her man, I saw the way you put your arm round her shoulders, like she was yours and you were hers and nothin' else mattered. And then after the fire, you just stood there, like you didn't see me as I held you back, like you just wanted to run into the fire to find her. And I never told you, Sammy, but it was just the way Dad looked, after mom. I'm sorry, Sammy, sorry I screwed it up for you._

He half-turns towards me and I see his eyes, too bright again in the dark, glittering with unspoken fears and unshed sorrow, and I can read them, read his guilt as easily as I know he can read mine.

_I hurt you, I know it now. I hurt you so much when I left, walked away from you after everything you've done for me, everything you've given up for me. And I know you said it doesn't matter, that it's your job; it's what big brother's do, right? But it isn't. 'Cause Daniel Hawkes killed his little brother. You never even got mad at me, not once, not really. I'm sorry, man. I'm sorry I walked away from you, because I knew how much it would kill you to let me go but I didn't give you any other choice._

I watch him watching me and I wish I knew a way to take the pain out of his eyes. I wish I could turn back the clock and have him believe me when I silently promise him everything will be alright again, just the way he used to when he was small enough to fall asleep on my lap watching TV while I waited for Dad to come home. Hell, I wish I could just find a way to say _I'm sorry, _but if the words to apologise for everything that's happened to us exist, I don't know them.

And then it all goes to hell.

The bone-deep cold turns suddenly bitterly arctic, biting at exposed skin, sending piercing pains shooting through my still tender ears. Something above us screams as if it was the end of the universe, the floor beneath me literally shaking as I drop to my knees, digging my fists into my ears again but the sound is too much for anything to block it out, so much worse than when it was limited by the physics of the woman's voice and I can feel blood trickling out under my hands. I know I'm yelling, I can feel the air leaving my lungs, feel my throat strain with the force of the cry but all I can hear is the scream going on and on and on until Sam, who fell to the floor seconds after I did turns into freaking Rambo on me, forcing himself to his feet, mouth gaping wide in a yell as silent as mine as he grabs a shotgun in each hand and fires straight up.

The salt rains down over me, a silent, stinging rain that dries my throat as I struggle to get my breath back and suck it in with the cold air. I almost jump out of my skin when a hand grabs at my shoulder, but I recognise the touch a bare instant before I ram the knife from my boot into his heart. Sam peers into my face, lips moving, eyes wide but I still can't hear anything. I shake my head, wince as the goblin takes his cue again and I point at my ears, blood on my hands, trickling down the sides of my neck. He looks at it, pales, and I don't need to hear him to understand what he mouths.

_Oh crap._

I nod fractionally, swallowing hard, trying to clear the pressure in my ears. He mimes yawning at me, looks a little defensive when I glare at him and holds his hands out helplessly.

_I don't know what else to try. Sorry._

I sigh, pat him on the shoulder;

_It's okay. It'll be alright._

I prop myself up, leaning on his shoulder as I clamber to my feet and he holds still until I'm steady, if listing a little. Then he follows me up, concerned eyes watching my every move until I reach up, not looking, and smack the back of his head.

_Work, Sammy! Watch out for the pissed off spirit._

He sneers at me, but at least he stops watching me, turning his gaze back out to the barn. We don't have long before the spirit comes back and we both know it. So we dump the scythe down on the ancient bloodstain and I pour gas

over both as he piles on the salt. The fumes rise quickly, stinging my eyes, making them water and my already pounding head spins as I stumble a little. He plucks the matches from my hands before I can do more than tear a couple off the strip and holds them up out of my reach when I grab for them, scowling ferociously at me and jabbing one finger at the workbench beside the door.

I glare back, just long enough for him to know he didn't win at all, then I go and hoist myself up on to the bench, trying not to let out a relieved and grateful sigh that I can't hear as I lean back against the wall and stare at the dust sifting down from the hayloft above. The pounding goblin in my head takes the opportunity to impress the screaming fans that seemed to have taken up residence behind my eyeballs and I frown a little, close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. It doesn't really help.

I give in to the sigh as I hear a voice join in the thumping metal concert playing inside my skull, sliding down on the bench until I'm half-lying on it. It's only when I feel the wood jump beneath me that I realise the voice I'm hearing isn't the ringing inside my head at all – it's my brother, yelling frantically, desperately for me. I push myself up and off the bench, landing in an ungraceful crouch on the floor beside the large hammer that just hit the bench, and that's what saves me from the large saw blade that whirrs through the air so close it takes a few of my hairs with it and embeds itself in the wood of the bench where I'd been slumped. I spare it one glance, then I hear a cry, wavering in and out of my barely functioning hearing and my head whips round of its own accord, in spite of the searing pain my brain puts up in protest at the rash movement. I find my brother, pinned down in the corner of the barn, an assortment of blades hovering in front of him, occasionally darting forward only for him to swipe them out of the air with the metal bar he's holding.

_Iron. Good boy, Sammy._

I scramble across the floor, keeping so low I'm more on my knees than my feet and scoop up the shotgun, praying it's loaded as I swing round, aim across the empty space in front of my brother and fire. The salt roars faintly, leaves a rushing sound in my head as it scours the air in front of him clean and carries on to pepper the low door of a pen I hadn't noticed before. Something kicks back at the door, but I don't have time to wonder what, as something else – namely, one seriously pissed off spirit – materialises right in front of me.

"I wish you'd stop doing that."

It growls at my snark, fists long hands in my shirt and I pull the shotgun up between us, jam it under Daniel's chin and pull the trigger. The spirit hesitates, grins nastily as the pin clicks down on an empty chamber and hoists me up, tossing me up onto the hayloft. The dust that was once straw, cushions my fall, then rises billowing in a cloud, choking me. I'm spluttering on it, trying to find a clean patch of air to breathe when the damn spook reappears to kick me in the side and send me rolling back in the direction he's just thrown me from – straight towards the edge. He kicks again and my legs swing out over the long drop as I grab at his foot, catch hold and hang on with all my strength. For a spirit, he looks more than a little surprised. I'm hanging there, clinging on to a ghost's foot for dear life when I feel a shotgun blast rip the air above my back apart.

_Oh, __**crap**__._

Daniel dissipates and I scrabble wildly at the dust, dropping a few feet before my frantic hands latch onto the edge. It's rotting, crumbling away beneath my fingers, and it's easily the most wonderful plank of wood I've ever held.

"Dean!"

"Sammy?"

I can just about hear him shouting, can't quite make out what he's yelling but I don't really need to.

"Finish the job, Sam! Burn him before he comes back!"

The anger in his shout comes through loud and clear.

"SAM! Finish! The! Job!"

He's silent for a moment, though I guess he's probably muttering something along the lines of _pain in the ass big brothers who think they're freakin' invincible and leave it to me to pick up the freakin' pieces. _I grin faintly as I feel the heat of the fire below; dare to peer down between my arms at the floor and the scythe burning merrily. The fire twists below my boots, the barn suddenly whirling around it as my vision blurs and the muscles in my arms try hard to turn to jello.

_Not a good idea, Dean._

My arms are shaking, the tremors working their way down through my back and slowly, one at a time, my fingers start to peel away from the edge. My grip fails in the same instant that his hands clamp around my wrists and he hauls me up, grunting with the effort, dragging me over the edge until we lie sprawled on the floor, side by side, panting for breath. His hands are still locked around my wrists, tight enough that I know I'll have bruises tomorrow. I grip his arms back, just as tightly.

Slowly, the burning in my lungs fades, my heart rate eases to something vaguely approaching normal and I sit up, squinting over at him.

"Thanks."

He shrugs, mutters something and frowns as he sees from my face I didn't hear it.

"You're still not hearing?"

"Some things. Not quiet things."

He looks worried.

"It'll be alright, Sammy. I promise. Okay?"

Wonder of wonders, the worry fades a little, as if my promise is all the reassurance he needs to hear, just like it used to be, and for a moment I can feel the weight of him in my lap again, hear the soft, kiddie-snores he used to deny. I smile and he quirks a brow at me.

"Nothin'. Let's get the hell out of here."

"Yeah."

We stand together; make our way carefully to the rickety ladder. I go first, not trusting the rungs at all, feeling them creak and groan under me as sweat breaks out across my forehead and trickles down my spine. It turns icy as Sam gasps above me, the short sound full of horror. I look up at him and he's poised at the top of the ladder, wide eyes fixed on something on the other side of the barn, mouth working soundlessly and I know that this time it's not just that I still can't hear properly, but now he really isn't making any sound at all. I turn, wobbling on the ladder as it flexes under me, and then I see what my brother's gaping at.

"You gotta be kiddin' me."

The low door, scarred by my shot earlier, holds in a seething mass of fur and horns and wild yellow eyes, barely visible through the smoke writhing across the far side of the barn.

"The hell, Sam?"

"Move Dean!"

His voice is a damn sight closer than it should have been and I look up in time to snatch one hand out from under his foot, scrambling a few rungs down as he keeps climbing after me.

"Sam!"

"_Move!"_

I don't have time to yell back at him, don't even have time to deliver the slap to his ankles that my hand is itching to give before the ladder shudders one last time under our weight, and tears away from the wall.

"Ah, _**crap**__!"_

The yell bursts out of me as I ride the ladder down, clinging on desperately, hearing Sam's frantic shout above me. The ancient wood peels down in a series of jolts and jerks that almost pulls my arms from their sockets, and dumps us in a heap on the floor, Sam sprawled on top of me in an unceremonious tangle of arms and legs. I lie there, trying to breathe with his weight on top of me, feeling his heartbeat race against mine and I have to fight not to hold on to him as he stirs with a groan I can feel vibrate through his chest.

"Sammy? You okay?"

"Yeah."

He sits up, holding one hand against the side of his head, looking more than a little dazed.

"Sure?"

He glances at me, blinks a little, as if he's startled and I try to see if his pupils are equal, but in the dark they're all but invisible and he glowers at me.

"I'm fine."

The fact that he starts coughing a split-second later isn't particularly convincing. Then again, so do I, the billowing smoke finally reaching us and it hits us both at the same time. The fire burning Daniel Hawkes' remains has spread, caught in the wood that's tinder-dry even in the damp autumn. I can feel the heat against my face as I scramble to my feet and start for the door, only to be almost yanked from my feet by the hand that wraps around my collar. I stagger back and Sam hauls me round, shouting into my face.

"The goats!"

"_What?!"_

"We can't leave them, Dean!"

"Sam, the building is _burning to the ground!"_

"Exactly!"

I gape at him but he's got that stubborn look, the one that turns his puppy-dog eyes to steel and I throw my hands up with a growl of resignation and stomp off through the smoke, face buried in the crook of one elbow, trying to filter the air a little. He hurries past me, all but bouncing, and dashes to the door, _cooing _over it. When I get there I have to hide my laugh in my sleeve. He's reaching out to the goats, clucking frantically, while they glare at him from the far side of the pen and refuse to move.

_Guess they got a good helping of Winchester stubborn…_

"Dammit, come on!"

"Take it easy, Sammy. You don't cluck at goats. That's chickens."

He throws me a look I can't decipher.

"Well, what the hell do you do?"

"I don't know! Yodel?"

"_Yodel?"_

"I guess."

This time I'm glad I can't work out the expression on his face.

"How the hell do you yodel?"

"Aw, come on Sammy, I know you've seen The Sound of Music!"

He flushes, cheeks turning bright pink and turns again to the goats, casting a doubtful glance back at me as he does.

The sound he lets rip with is worse than the spirit's screams. The goats flinch en-masse, letting out a chorused, accusatory bleat, glaring with those freaky yellow eyes at me.

"Hey, it ain't my fault!"

They don't look particularly convinced, but when I reach past my scarlet brother and flip up the catch on the gate they charge forward, stampeding past us in a whirlwind of fur and hooves. We watch them go, waiting until they disappear through the door.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we go now?"

He nods, and we take a step forward, only to freeze when I hear a terrified bleat from behind me, almost hidden in the thunder of the rest of the room giving way and crashing to the floor behind us.

"Aw, _come on!"_

I yell at the world in general, shoving hard at Sam's shoulder and turning back to see a pair of small, dark eyes gaze up at me from the back of the pen, the beams above it smouldering threateningly.

"Dean?"

"Go! I got it!"

I dart in, ducking low as the heat from the beams singes my hair and snatch at the kid goat. It squirms, wriggling in my arms and tries to lick my face but I'm a little preoccupied with the cracking sounds above me. I look up, and see the beams come loose, a mass of wood and fire hurtling down towards me and I throw myself back, landing in an undignified, breathless heap at my brother's feet as he pulls out his camera phone.

And that's when I consider fratricide for an instant before my mind catches up with my fury and I remember why we're here in the first place, remember the grief buried deep beneath the guilt in his eyes, grief for everything he's lost, and for everything I've lost too. Even deeper, the fear, raw and searing, of losing what little we still have left, and I know it's the one thing I can never hide from him either, the one thing he can always see. So I push myself up, staggering a little as the baby goat in my arms struggles and we run, boots thudding against the floor in perfect time as I fall in behind him, the need to put myself between my kid brother and danger burning as hot and as fierce as the fire that edged its way towards the old fuel and fertilizer tanks in the far corner of the barn.

**_A/N: Sammy's tortured emo rock - Corner, by Staind._**


	3. Chapter 3 Tortured Emo Rock Crap

**_A/N: Thanks and cookies to Ster1, who spotted a Canyon chapter sneaking in here instead of this one... tricky little beggars. Ta! And sorry if I confused anyone!_**

"Dean?"

_Go away, Sam, I'm sleepin'. I'll play later._

"Dean, come on, wake up man."

I really, _really _don't want to wake up. I'm warm, comfortable, quite happily sleeping but damn if my baby brother can't be persistent when he puts his mind to it.

"Dean, dammit, you gotta wake up, _please."_

_Puppy-dog alert._

I peel back one eye, let it slam shut again with a groan as the light gatecrashes the brand new goblin's party inside my skull.

"Oh God, Dean."

His voice summons a vision of pin wheeling arms and legs in a spider-web tangle, crashing through the grass and lying so still…

"Sam?"

I can't recognise the ragged voice that croaks my brother's name, only the spike of pain in my chest reminding me that it really was me.

"I'm here. I'm okay. I'm right here."

"'k," I breathe, letting his voice wash away the memory, letting my heart beat slow a little and the hand that had reached out for him fall..

"No, no no, Dean, stay awake!"

His hands grab my shoulders and shake me and I bolt upright with a cry as pain slams through me.

"_God!"_

He flinches, pulls his hand away from my shoulder but I reach up and grab his other wrist before he can move it, needing the contact desperately as the pain crashes over me like an ocean dumped on my head. He holds on, squeezing tightly, never once twitching as my fingers grind helplessly into his arm, a grip I can't break, couldn't ease up on if my life depended on it. He moves, pulling away a little and it tears my heart out, throws it on the floor and pounds it into the dust. It's a familiar feeling, the one that brought me to my knees for an hour after the bus had disappeared, one that never really left until he landed that perfect right hook on my jaw in his apartment. It terrifies me now, and I squeeze my hand around his wrist so tightly my knuckles crack.

_Don't go! Sammy please, don't leave me behind again. I can't do this on my own._

It isn't until his soft murmurs finally cut through the haze of pain that I realise I spoke out loud. He's wrapped his arms carefully around me, pulled me up against his chest and is rocking gently. I can feel his cheek against the top of my head as hot liquid runs down the back of my neck, battling with the mortified flush that creeps up my cheeks.

"I'm not goin', Dean, I'm not going anywhere, ever again, I promise. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

"Sammy?"

He gasps, sniffs loudly in my ear and I grimace a little.

"Dude, that's gross."

He grinds out a kind of laugh with an apology mixed in there somewhere. I lean into him for just a moment, letting the heat of his presence behind me soothe the churning in my stomach. Then something bleats, butts my knee and he chuckles a little, the movement jarring my ribs and shoulder. I bite down on the moan that tries to claw its way out through my lips and force my eyes to open, peering down at a long, pale, hairy face by my leg. The baby goat bleats and head butts my knee again, pulling off a pair of puppy-dog eyes that put Sam's best efforts to shame. I can feel him trying not to laugh, his chest jarring against my back as he hiccups but it's a sound I haven't heard in far too long.

So I don't say anything, just let him laugh until he sighs, wiping at his eyes again. I push at him, trying to sit up and he grabs my good shoulder gently, steadying me, grounding me as the world sways drunkenly.

"Hey, hey easy man. Take it easy. I gotcha!"

The groan finally breaks free and damn if even that doesn't hurt, shimmering through my ribs.

"Dammit…"

"Okay. It's okay. Come on."

The goat wanders after us as he hauls me to my feet, drags my good arm over his shoulder and practically carries me along the path around the house. I can't even hold my head up, can't do anymore than let it roll helplessly against his collarbone, smelling the smoke that lingers on our clothes and skin. The fire still rages sullenly in the remains of the barn, as we move slowly away I can feel the heat on my back receding, and before we've managed to stagger more than a couple of metres I'm shivering so hard I can barely stand. When he dumps me carefully on the back seat of my car, I don't even have the strength to protest, not even sure I want to as he snags a blanket from the foot-well and tucks it in around me. I snuggle down in it, hazily watching him as he hurries to the driver's seat, limping and wincing as he slides in behind the wheel.

"Sammy?"

"I'm fine, Dean. Okay?"

There's a warning in his voice, a slow, subtle anger that even I know better than to ignite. It burns sullenly, like the barn as we drive away, a glowering red eye in the night behind us. The car is silent save the grumble of the engine, the air heavy with the words we never speak. Used to be, we didn't need to say anything, but we're not those kids who could finish each others sentences and speak so perfectly in time that Dad used to swear we practised in the mirror just to freak him out anymore. I shiver, creep deeper into the blanket and watch my brother drive, wondering when he grew so tall, so strong but I know the answer. It happened in hollow, empty years, the years when we weren't brothers, when we were alone.

The blurriness that suddenly clouds my vision isn't entirely due to the concussion.

I meet his gaze in the mirror, and buried beneath the worry and the lingering sadness that always clouds his eyes now is a silent plea, a steady reassurance.

_Let me help, Dean. Just once. I can carry you._

I swallow hard, trying not to gag on the lump in my throat and nod once, glad that – for once – we understand each other again because I really don't know if I could speak at all right now. He smiles, just, a tiny flicker of a sad grin before he turns his stare back to the road and reaches out for the radio. He's driving, so it's some tortured emo rock crap, but I glare at the fingers of my good hand as I realise they're tapping along to it. They stop, but as we drive along the pain burning through me gets worse and soon only the soft voice and the sound of him tapping the steering wheel is all that's keeping me going. I listen to the words; _"It sheltered me from nothing but the weather, but I called it home for a moment of my life," _wonder if he chose this song deliberately.

'_Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Don't look back. Now Dean! Go!'_

"Dad?"

In the front, Sam makes a choked sound, reaches back and brushes one hand across my face. I shake him off; sink back into the music without telling him I heard Dad, as clearly as I do the song, knowing he isn't here no matter how much I wish he was. _"So I stare out this dirty window, as this world goes slowly by," _All at once I'm back at Stanford, outside the apartment I know far better than anyone – even dad – suspected, listening to my brother try hard to keep the pride from his voice, the quiet search for my approval in his eyes as he tells me _'It's a law school interview, and it's my whole future on a plate,' _and all I could think about was letting him go, watching him walk away again.

"_And somewhere out there is the future, that I once thought had passed me by."_

'_Look out for Sammy.'_

"_It sheltered me from nothing but the rain."_

"I'm sorry."

He sighs, deep and broken, runs one shaking hand through his hair and I realise he thinks I'm delirious, hallucinating dad in the seat beside me. I glance across at the opposite window, just to make sure. I try to ignore the pang in my chest as I see the world rushing past the window.

"Sam," I try again. "I'm sorry."

He jumps, stares at me until I point frantically at the edge of the road rapidly approaching then he swerves, swears fluently and impressively as he wrestles the wheel to bring her back under control and stops in the middle of the road, staring out at the windshield and the night beyond.

"Jesus, Sam. First you try and blow us up then you try and crash my baby?"

He huffs out a pissed off breath through his nose, grits, "Not funny, Dean," and I have to agree. Mentioning it made the memory of watching the blast snatch him away from me churn through my head and I have to force myself to swallow down the bile that crawls up my throat.

"Guess not."

We sit in silence as the music changes twice, broken snatches of song scratching at my mind as I drift, weary and hurting and wishing I knew what to say.

"What for?"

He's so quiet that I think it's just another song for a moment before I feel the weight of his gaze in the mirror. I look up, meet his stare squarely and can't speak.

_For Jess. For taking you away from school. For letting you go thinking I hated you for it. For never seeing how much it hurt you, living this life._

In the glass, I can see the tears that slip over his lashes through my own that never fall. They turn to diamonds on his cheeks as a pick-up swerves around us with a squeal of tyres and a blast of his horn and he flinches away from the angry yell just about audible over the racket of the engine.

"I'm sorry."

It's all I can say, and it's enough because as he cries silently he smiles at me, sniffling as he turns back to the road and shoves the car into drive.

We make it all of two minutes down the road before I speak again.

"Sam?"

"Hmm?"

He doesn't really answer, just kind of grunts and fires a quick glance at me in the mirror.

"What the hell's a goat doing in my car?"


	4. Chapter 4 Something Like Pride

_**A/N: This one skips back to cover the last chapter from Sam's pov. Blame him. He wouldn't shut up until I gave him a say…**_

Awareness returns like a brush fire, creeping inexorably through my nerves and setting them alight. I groan, suddenly realise there really isn't enough air in my lungs for that and choke breathlessly. Spots twirl behind my eyes and my senses fade to the slow struggle to drag hot smoke through a throat paralysed by the shock of a landing I now wish had been head first. Then I might not remember it. But I can feel each lash mark of the grass that whipped at me and slowed my bruising tumble along the ground, still feel the tightness of the burns on my back. And then I remember the frantic voice that yelled my name before the explosion that turned the world inside out in an overwhelming roar of flame.

"Dean?"

The effort dissolves into a coughing fit and _damn _it that hurts, but I stutter out another call between the paroxysms, stuff my fist into my mouth as I try to hear past the rasping, gagging coughs. There's nothing. No answer.

_Oh God._

Next thing I know I'm more or less on my feet, stumbling through the grass that's too freaking _long, _falling more than running, craning my aching neck to see through the waving crop until pain stabs down my spine. It's nothing compared to the pain that slices straight through my heart as I see a boot through the grass, smoking gently.

"_DEAN!"_

The sharp thud of my knees hitting the ground goes unnoticed, the sting of a stone cutting through denim and into my skin barely even felt as I reach out to him, hand shaking. He's curled into a loose ball, twisted almost face down, one closed, shadowed eye just visible and what little skin is left exposed by the awkward position is pale beneath streaks and smudges of blood and soot. My hand ghosts over his shoulder and I swallow hard as I take in the clear deformity of the joint, the sharp angle of the bone jutting past his collarbone, straining at his jacket. I snatch my hand back as he jerks, eyes still closed, a strange, muffled sound escaping him.

"Dean?"

The whisper hurts far more than any of my shouts had. The ache as a pristine white head fights free of the body curled round it should surely be fatal. The goat bleats at me, blinking and wobbling to its feet dazedly. I lose sight of it behind the tears that burn my eyes, listen through the roaring in my ears as it bleats again, its hooves clicking softly against the hard ground as it trots back to the still figure and nuzzles it, a white blur nudging an indistinct smudge of sooty, scorched leather and singed hair.

Then my brother moves.

Just a twitch of one out-flung hand, fingers barely moving but it stops the world in its tracks.

"Dean, come on, wake up man."

He's still again, so still, and all I can think is, '_what the hell am I going to put on his gravestone? Here lies Dean Winchester, demon hunter, killed rescuing a baby goat.'_ There won't be a gravestone of course, cremation is kind of a given for us and always has been but the thought of touching a burning torch to his shroud is just too much and my mind skitters away into the bizarre in self-defence.

"Dean, dammit, you gotta wake up, please."

My breath hitches, my lower lip pushing out a fraction of an inch and trembling. I suddenly realise it's the 'puppy-dog eyes' that he could never say no too, but then it spirals into a shaky grin as a slit of one green eye appears, so bloodshot and reddened I almost reach for the flask of holy water in my pocket.

"Oh God, Dean."

"Sam?"

He sounds so lost my grin dies a long, protracted death that would put any Shakespearean actor to shame. One blood-streaked hand reaches up for me, wavering crazily an inch off the ground.

"I'm here. I'm okay. I'm right here."

"'k," he breathes, barely even a sound and his hand falls limply back down as he sighs and seems to melt into the chipped asphalt.

"No, no no, Dean, stay awake!"

I reach out, shake him, suddenly so scared I can't breathe, can't even see anything beyond his face as his eyes fly open and he cries out, surging up with impossible strength against my hands.

"God!"

My fingers loosen of their own accord, start to let go the touch that's put so much pain into his voice but his hand snaps up and locks around my wrist, so tight I know I'll be black and blue in minutes. I ease back slightly, and the grip tightens further, desperately, digging deep between the tendons as a frantic murmur spills from his lips, slurred thoughts he doesn't even seem to know he's voicing.

"Don' go! Sammy please, don' lee' me behin' again. I can' do this on my own."

My heart breaks into a thousand razor-edged shards as I edge round behind him, pull him gingerly back into my chest and wrap my arms around him.

"I'm not goin', Dean, I'm not going anywhere, ever again, I promise. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere," I whisper, tucking his head under my cheek, tears spilling into his hair, already darkened by soot and sweat. I realise I'm rocking slightly, back and forth, over and over but I can't stop, desperate to reject the image of him lying so still.

"Sammy?"

My breath hitches in my chest, firing pain through cracked ribs but a weak, watery smile twitches my lips and I sniff, wiping the tears from my face with one hand, the other fisted in his jacket. I have no intention of letting go this century.

"Dude, that's just gross."

I have to laugh, though it stutters and breaks as he leans back into me, the barest sliver of an inch, a screamed declaration of need from my brother. The goat suddenly bleats, wanders back to us – I hadn't even noticed it mooch away earlier and I hear Dad's voice chiding me to pay attention, keep watch, Dean's softer echo the one that always stayed with me – and it head butts my brother's knee determinedly. A chuckle escapes, tinged with hysteria as I see that damned gravestone again, then the kid thumps his knee again, bleating authoritatively and the chuckle turns into an honest-to-god laugh, a few hiccups snapping ice through my ribs on the way.

Finally, the adrenaline-soaked mirth runs out and I wipe at my streaming eyes. Dean takes the opportunity to push himself away from me, swaying like a drunk in a hurricane and I hastily grab hold of his shoulder.

"Hey, hey easy man. Take it easy."

He groans, low and deep, shaking loose far down in the depths of the pain he never shows.

"Dammit…"

"Okay. It's okay. Come on."

I don't think he even realises he's reached up to my hand where I still grip his shoulder, latching onto me with a fierce desperation as I haul him to his feet and begin the long, arduous, two-hundred yard trek to the car. By the time we get there the cold of the night has bitten deep, the warmth of the merry blaze gladly left behind and now we're both shivering. I bite my lip as I struggle to slide my brother into the back seat and he says nothing, doesn't even snipe at me as I drag a blanket embroidered with some motel logo from three states ago from the heap of junk between the seats and tuck him in.

The reassuring growl of the engine seems wrong with him in the back, not even by my side and it's jarring as I pull away, trying desperately to drive smoothly, acutely aware of each and every hitch in his breathing when we bounce over the millimetre deep potholes in the driveway. I can't stop my eyes drifting to the mirror, every time I yank my gaze back to the road it sneaks off to search out his quiet reflection a few minutes later. He's half-sitting, half-lying across the seat, one leg propped up on the leather, trying to ease the pressure on his grating ribs. His head is nodding, eyelids already at half-mast and drooping further with each shallow breath, but he forces his chin up every time it lolls, blinks some semblance of awareness into his eyes and meets my gaze in the mirror, the hint of a challenge peeking out through the tears of pain brimming in his lashes. The defiance is totally, utterly infuriating, completely terrifying and I'm

heartily sick of it. My brother will jump in front of every bullet for anyone else, will wear himself to the bone saving the rest of the world but he will never let anyone help, least of all me, and I know that one day it'll get him killed.

_Not today, _I swear to myself, letting the burning will in the promise show in my stare, knowing that it's softened by the fear.

_My turn, Dean. Let me help, just once. Don't shut me out again. Please._

He nods fractionally, reluctantly, and my lips twitch into a rough attempt at a smile as I turn my attention back to the road. We cruise through a dip in the road, he groans quietly and wraps his good arm around his chest, cradling his shoulder. I reach out, flick on the radio and shove a cassette into it, one of the few I've managed to scrounge. He huffs behind me but neither of us says anything. _House rules. _

My hands tap at the steering wheel, a rhythm turned a little unsteady by the trembling that won't quite leave my fingers. In the back, Dean shifts uncomfortably, goes quiet again and the milometer ticks over another few digits. My heart about stops as he mumbles something, then calls out in a strangled, ragged gasp.

"Dad?"

The breath freezes in my lungs, my blood turns to crystalline ice at the raw need in his voice and for an instant I'm back at Stanford, shivering outside as he ducks his head, almost struggling to meet my gaze.

'_I can't do this alone.'_

'_Yes, you can.'_

'_Yeah well, I don't want to.'_

The confession in his voice that night had stunned me. I wasn't used to my big brother being anything other than invincible, supremely confident and for a moment I'd been almost convinced that the young, lonely man in front of me wasn't my brother at all.

My eyes dart to the mirror, looking for the anger that had lit slowly in his glare that night, shaken away the jarring sense of something buried too deep for too long suddenly dragged to the surface but it isn't there. His gaze is unfocussed, even in the dark interior of the car, heavy shadows of pain beneath his eyes and a dark smudge of soot on one cheek make him look frighteningly young and he's searching the car, looking for Dad, looking for a touch in the dark. I reach back, pure instinct, and stretch as far as I can to brush a hand over that stain on his cheek and he brushes me away, a hint of annoyance tightening his mouth. I should be glad to see it but I shudder instead, feeling the slick wetness on my fingertips where I'd touched that smear that wasn't soot at all.

My foot turns to lead on the accelerator.

"I'm sorry."

His murmur startles me out of a frantic daze. I focus on the white lines blurring past outside, willing them to turn to the stars that streaked past the windows on the Enterprise in Star Trek, some absurd whisper in the back of my head ordering _'Warp Speed Four!' _as I try to work out how long we've been driving, if there was enough time for a fever to set in and make him delirious.

"Sam. I'm sorry."

I jump, having managed to absolutely convince myself that he is delirious and I meet his weary gaze in the mirror, wondering at the strength that drives him to somehow make everything alright. His urgent gestures at the world outside finally get through to me and my eyes flick back to the edge of the road. I slam on the brakes, curse as I fight the wheel and the big, powerful and too-damn-_heavy _car fishtails wildly across the asphalt, finally screeching to a halt neatly in the middle of the road. My heart is pounding so hard it could double as the soundtrack for a remake of Zulu and I know that if my hands weren't wrapped so tightly around the wheel that my knuckles are translucent; they'd be shaking violently. All I can do is stare out the windshield, my mind still stuck in the skid, hearing the tyres screech, hearing my world come crashing down around me.

"Jesus, Sam. First you try and blow us up then you try and crash my baby?"

I blow a breath out through my nose, my jaw locked too tight to let any air out and force words past the lump in my throat.

"Not funny, Dean."

"Guess not."

We sit in silence and I know he's struggling as much as I am tonight. I've heard the panic in his voice, can feel the fingerprints bruising my wrist where he held on so desperately but I don't know what to say, don't know how to make it right, how to get my invincible big brother back. The realisation of the need suddenly stirs curiosity inside me and I wonder what he'd apologised for before I nearly wiped the Winchester family off the face of Utah.

"What for?"

His gaze snaps up and he blinks owlishly at me in the mirror. And suddenly, everything is right again. We're hurting, both of us, battered and bruised and broken but I can read him again, read the apology in those depthless green eyes, all the things we never used to need to say that I hadn't realised I'd missed until now. Hot tears slip over my cheeks, scatter bright into the dark as I jump in the sudden rush of light and sound from the pickup that swerves noisily around us.

"I'm sorry."

I smile a little, as much as I can, finally understanding, that he _needs _to apologise, has to shoulder the burden we carry so that he can let it drop occasionally. I hold his gaze a moment longer, wordlessly telling him I can carry the weight when he can't and acceptance softens the iron and steel in his gaze. I turn back to the road, shove the car into gear and cast a quick glance to the silent, white lump huddled up in my jacket in the foot well beside me, trying to think up some excuse for the inevitable demand that comes two minutes later.

It's good practice for the doctors at the hospital I drag him to. They take one look at us both as I literally try to haul him out of the car, protesting bitterly and clinging with suspicious strength to the back of the front seat before descending on us. Half an hour later I'm fighting the urge to retch as one doctor stitches up the hole in my head and another works on Dean's shoulder on the other side of the room. Dean, of course, is cursing loudly and fluently. Loudly enough, in fact, to make the pounding in my head kick up a notch until I stand up, shove my way past the startled doctor and weave my way across the room to the bed where he lies pale and clammy and furious and tell him to _"Shut the hell UP!"_

It's almost worth the vicious spike of pain to see the shocked look on his face dissolve into something like pride. He doesn't make another sound as the doctors wrestle his shoulder back into place, just clenches his jaw so tightly I wonder if they're going to have to set that too, and breaks half the bones in my hand with his grip when the joint relocates with a sickeningly audible pop. He relaxes so suddenly my heart skips a beat, stumbling back into rhythm again as I see his chest rise and fall in slow, even breaths.

"Why the hell didn't you pass out sooner? Stubborn jackass."

My doctor glares at me, waving his needle threateningly after that but I can't summon up the energy to do more than sigh wearily and sink into a chair someone shoves under me, my hand still wrapped in and around my brother's. The white coats blur together then, a low murmur that never quite seems to stop as I slouch down in the chair and let the world drift away for a while.


	5. Chapter 5 Life Without Adrenaline

I finally crawl more-or-less awake around seven the following evening to find that I'm sprawled out in the same chair, legs stretched out beneath the bed, my head resting on Dean's arm.

My neck cracks loudly as I sit up slowly, wincing as I roll my head around and try to work the kinks out of my aching spine.

"You mind? Some of us are tryin' to sleep."

The feigned annoyance would be more convincing if he didn't squeeze my hand for a flicker of a second.

"Yeah, well maybe you'd like to get your lazy ass up so I can go sleep in a bed."

The thin promise of liberation has his eyes popping open instantly and he sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed before I can stop him.

"Whoa, whoa hold on."

He sways drunkenly, almost pitches face first to the floor and clings to my arm as I catch him, swearing so quietly I feel it more than hear it. Dean being Dean, he bites it back, grinds his teeth together and forces himself up on wobbly legs.

"Dean – "

"Wanna get the hell out of here, Sammy."

His voice is thick, slurred from the meds that have widened his pupils until there's only the thinnest ring of green around them and the black hollows are utterly, starkly terrified. He's too groggy still to hide it, not quite unaware enough to not realise I've seen it and the combination makes him defensive and frustrated.

"I know. Just take a minute Dean, okay?"

He glares at me, but sighs a little and sinks back to sit on the edge of the bed, refusing with a stubborn growl to lay back on it properly even though his feet don't quite touch the floor and he looks like a petulant five year old. I wait until my back is turned before I roll my eyes.

"I saw that."

_How the…_

"I'm gonna go find your doctor, see if he'll discharge you. Okay?"

The truth is I'm as eager to leave as my brother is. I've spent too much time in hospitals, seen that look of fear in his eyes too many times and every single one of them cuts me a little deeper. Because it's fear for _me, _fear that if he's laid up in a hospital bed he can't look after me, can't protect me and as much as I hate the risks it drives him to take, the feeling of safety, of being cared for and protected is one I never quite realised how much I missed, in the years we were apart, until he knocked me to the floor of the apartment in Stanford. Seeing him smirk down at me, feeling the slow ache of the punches he'd pulled already softening and fading, I finally understood that the walls he built around me, keeping me hidden from the dark and the things that lurk there as long as he could, then almost daring them to try and fight their way through him to get to me were probably all that saved me as a child.

So I leave him slouched carefully on the edge of the bed, his death-grip on the sheets twisting them into a knot at his side and take two steps down the corridor before I run smack into the young man in the white coat with the faint impression of my brother's fist bruising one cheekbone.

_Oops._

Given the tenderness in my hand where Dean had crushed it yesterday as this sadist wrestled his shoulder back into place, I can't really find much sympathy for the guy. He glowers at me for a moment before a mask of cool, professional detachment slides into place.

"Mr. May. How are you and your brother doing this morning?"

"We're fine. And we'd both like to be discharged."

He blinks at me, honestly startled.

"Well, you both took quite a knock to the head yesterday. I'd really like to keep you in for a while longer and your brother overnight, just to keep an eye on his ribs and that shoulder."

I'm tired, my neck is stiff and sore from the hard landing in the grass yesterday and from sleeping hunched over the edge of the bed and all I want to do is stuff my brother into the backseat of the Impala and leave this town in our dust. I've watched him dance too close to the edge one too many times on this hunt and I'm suddenly, unspeakably sick of it.

"Trust me, doc. I know how to take care of a concussion and some broken ribs, and I'll make damn sure he rests his arm."

The doctor blusters a little, but he fingers the bruise on his cheek as he finally pushes past me to give Dean one last check over before signing us out AMA. I grin triumphantly as I follow him back into the room, and the look Dean shoots me over the doctor's shoulder is conspiratorial and proud.

_That's my boy, Sammy._

Then he yelps like a girl as the doctor lifts his arm and flexes the damaged joint carefully. I smirk and deliberately look the other way as Dean flips me the bird with his free hand before clutching at the sheets again and I'm sure I can hear them tearing. I pack the clothes the nurses had folded neatly into a white plastic bag, listening to the catches in his breath as the doctor probes his shoulder, ribs and head and I try not to gulp down too loudly the bile that rises in my throat every single time. But I can feel Dean's eyes on me through it all and when a muffled groan bursts from him I force myself to stop and turn to face him. I meet his gaze over the doctor's arm and the pain etching his face smoothes a little as he stares at me hard, finally sagging back into the pillows at the head of the bed as the doctor finishes his exam, shrugs and turns his back on my brother, missing the look that should probably have left him a charred, smoking corpse on the floor.

"Make sure he takes the painkillers and doesn't use that arm. The meds should stop the muscles stiffening too much, but the joint needs to rest. And keep an eye on the ribs, his and yours both."

By the time he'd left the room and I'd turned round, my brother was standing, leaning heavily against the bed, already fingering the thick sling on his arm.

"Don't even think about it."

His head snaps up and he shoots me a look so full of injured innocent I have to laugh. Of course, that makes my ribs ache even more fiercely and it takes a minute before I can catch my breath enough to help him into the wheelchair waiting in the corner. For once, he doesn't protest it, too busy watching me and worrying at his lip with his teeth to complain. The fact that just getting him across the room leaves him on the verge of passing out might have something to do with it too. Either way, I'm glad of the peace as a nurse takes the handles of the 'chair from me and wheels Dean out to the front doors, the Impala waiting in the nearest parking space I could find at three in the morning. It's

probably closer than the wheelchair was in the room. My brother fidgets restlessly until I slip behind the chair, taking over from the nurse who smiles politely at me as he heads back inside.

"Thank god,"

Dean groans, bracing his hand against the arm of the chair. I clap my own hand on his uninjured shoulder, squeezing firmly.

"Stay."

He twists around, wincing a little as his ribs protest the movement and then he gapes at me.

"Come again?"

"You heard me."

"I'm not a damn dog, Sam."

He tries to lever himself out of the chair but I push down on his shoulder, just enough to stop him and he flinches away, a strangled gasp barely audible. I cringe as he pales, guilt stabbing at me while the skin around his eyes tighten and his lips thin to nothing, sweat beading on his brow and trickling down his face as he shivers.

"Stay in the chair, Dean."

I deliberately keep my voice brisk, stern, pushing as much of our Father into it as I can when all it wants to do is shake and crack apart. My throat locks up as he just nods and leans against my hand for a moment, instinctively turning his head towards the contact, his breath brushing my fingers as he sighs. I can't look away from the sight, my eyes locked on his almost transparent face etched with pain and weariness as I've seen it so many times before. And, just like I have every other time, I promise him silently, promise _myself _that this is the last time.

I manage to stop the heavy chair an inch from the Impala's bumper, hoping he doesn't notice my brief struggle. A breath hisses from him, whistling quietly between clenched teeth as I slip a hand under his arm and haul him up, easing him into the front seat. Impossibly, he's even paler than before as I hurry back to the hospital doors returning the wheelchair, giving it a quick shove that sends it into a corner with a thud and a small shower of paint and plaster. Then I sprint back and slide, panting a little, behind the wheel. Dean rolls his head across the back of the seat, quirking one sooty eyebrow at me.

"Getting out of shape there kiddo?"

"Bite me."

He smirks, laughs a little but the sound dies with a soft moan as he grabs tenderly at his ribs.

"Dude, don't make me laugh."

"Sorry."

He grins weakly at me, ducking his head in the way he always has when he thinks I'm being an ass for apologising, but understands that I need to say it anyway. I smile back and start the engine, my grin broadening as he leans back in the seat with a happy sigh, his hand slipping free of his side long enough to pat gently and surreptitiously at the door. I reach forward and turn on the radio but still hear him murmur softly,

"_That's my girl."_

He dozes most of the way back to the motel, surfacing groggily to peer out through the window once as I stop for a red light.

"We there?"

"No. Few more minutes."

I watch him as he blinks slowly, head wobbling on his neck and see that the creases around his eyes have faded, the tension in his spine more relaxed.

_Pain meds are kicking in. Good._

"Go back to sleep, man. I'll wake you up when we get to the motel."

He hesitates a moment, something cold and hard surfacing briefly in his eyes.

"Dean. It's okay."

The things I don't say – don't know _how _to say send that fierce warrior tumbling back down into the drugged haze.

_We're safe. I've got you. Just rest. I've got you, and I won't let go._

He drifts off again mid-nod, slumping over against the door. Thirty seconds later he's snoring softly and a thin trail of drool hangs from his lips, fascinating both me and the goat that keeps sticking its head over the seat beside my ear to stare at my brother.

The phone in my pocket is a heavy weight, tantalising, but I leave it there as I turn into the motel parking lot, not really wanting anymore reminders of tonight. Dean stirs as soon as the car stops again, mumbles something I'm not sure I want to hear. I _know _I don't want to hear it a moment later as I struggle to heave him out of the car and he snuggles his head into the crook of my shoulder and neck, lips pursing in an uncoordinated kiss.

"Hmm… taste gooood, baby."

My cheeks turn so red they probably do a better job of advertising the motel than the neon sign does.

"Dean, wake up."

"Missed ya…"

"Jesus, Dean, wake the hell UP!"

I shake him and he freezes abruptly.

"Sam?"

I don't think I've ever been so glad to hear my name.

"_Yes!"_

"Uh…I, ah…"

He rolls his eyes up to squint at me as his cheeks heat to Saharan levels.

"We forget this. Right now. As of this moment, it _never happened."_

He nods, shoves at me until he's slightly more upright and we stagger to the room, still blushing furiously, both our mouths clamped firmly shut. I fumble at the lock until the key card slips into the slot and the lights blink green, then I kick the door open and drag us both inside. As soon as I cross the threshold, stepping carefully over the salt poured across the door, my knees sag, sudden and total exhaustion crashing down on me. We lean against each other, fall towards the closest bed, land on the mattress with more luck than judgment and sprawl there, side by side, staring at the nicotine stains on the ceiling. All I can see is the raging inferno burning behind my eyes, the smell of the smoke lingering in my hair and skin making it too close, too real for comfort.

"Sammy?"

His low call, more a groan than an actual word is a lifeline in the dark and I grab hold of it, drag myself awake again.

"Hmm?"

"Goat's still in the car."

A decidedly grumpy bleat from somewhere near our feet proves him wrong.

"No he ain't."

We're silent again for a while, getting used to being still again, re-adjusting to life without adrenaline for the first time in hours. Finally, the bed shifts beneath me as Dean levers himself up, leaning on his good arm.

"'M gonna hit the shower."

The thought of hot water, of getting rid of the smoke and soot makes me groan. The shudder that ripples through me at the thought of washing off the blood on my hands I keep to myself. My brother doesn't need to know that I'm long overdue for the hurling that has always been the inevitable outcome of feeling that slick, slippery heat between my fingers. I push the nausea away, climb wearily to my feet and stumble over to the door and the bag I'd dumped beside it earlier.

"Hold on a second."

Dean pauses halfway to the bathroom, leaning heavily against the wall, eyelids at half-mast again as he peers at me questioningly.

"I got some waterproof dressings at the hospital; need to keep the stitches dry." _Yours and mine, _I think, but I don't say it. One Winchester nursemaid is more than enough for this tiny room, and I've already laid claim to the role.

He doesn't answer, just seems to ignore me as he turns again and shuffles into the bathroom, but he leaves the door open and I hear him sigh out a soft groan as he drops down to sit on the edge of the tub. I find the box of dressings and kick the front door shut behind me as I cross the room, sidestepping the goat who decides to come and watch the floorshow in the bathroom.

"Gotta think of somethin' else to call you, goat."

It bleats at me, sounding strangely like Dean when he's irritable and my brother blinks at it.

"We gotta find a name for that thing."

I grin when he echoes me and reach out, turning on the taps to fill the sink, flipping down the toilet lid and shoving lightly at his shoulder to make him switch seats. He grumbles but complies, silently starting to work the buttons on his shirt undone one handed. A quick, heated debate breaks out between the warring factions of my tired brain over whether or not to help, but one look at his scowl and both sides shut up. Instead, I try not to grimace at the patchwork of bruises revealed as he slips painfully, jerkily out of his shirt. It looks as though there isn't a single square inch of skin that isn't marked, the worst of them flowering black as midnight around his ribs and peeking out beneath the bandaging on his shoulder. The long scrape across his belly only needed a few stitches but there are an even half-dozen deeper lacerations across his back and the cut on his cheek cost the hospital eight sutures.

We don't speak as I set to work, and by the time I'm done Dean looks like a poorly kept Michelin man, punctures patched with the white, waxy bandages. I don't laugh. He's even paler than my handiwork, the scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose standing out in stark relief.

"Dean."

I wait for him to look at me, eyes tight, mouth turned down at the corners.

"Get some rest, man. I'm gonna wash up, have a shave," _Throw up, violently and all over the place, _but that's one more thing he doesn't need to know. "I'll leave you some hot water."

Worryingly, he doesn't argue, just accepts my hand as I pull him to his feet, and leans on me as I guide his faltering steps back to the bed. He's asleep – and snoring – before I can shut the bathroom door behind me. A dark-haired stranger stares at me from the mirror, eyes glittering as my throat locks up. When I raise a hand to my mouth, he does the same and I can see the blood on my fingers, almost black now. It's the last straw. My stomach rebels, churning viciously and I throw myself to the floor, barely managing to get the lid of the toilet up in time.

When it's finished, I flop onto the floor, sprawling there on my back, staring up at the ceiling but not really seeing it. I've lost count of the number of crappy motel room bathroom ceilings I've _not_ seen, though the worst of them would be infinitely preferable to what parades across my mind; my brother, broken and bloody, a dead Skinwalker beside him; my brother, hanging limply from the ceiling in the cave, five bloody claw marks cut deep into his chest by the Wendigo, _my brother, _jumping in between me and a spirit, and a knife, and the freakin' _truck _he thought he could stop with his head when we were kids. Dad saved us both that time, swept us up out of the road I'd run into, swearing like the trucker.

Finally, I can see the cracked, stained tiles again. I'm lying there, panting heavily, hair and t-shirt plastered down with sweat and it seems like every single joint in my body has turned to granite. I claw my way up to my feet, stagger into the shower and turn the taps on full blast. The water splashes onto me, ice cold for a breath-stealing instant, then scalding hot, my skin prickling as I scrub ruthlessly at the soot and the blood. I'm as pink as a lobster before I stop smelling smoke, and I climb back out of the tub, considerably more gracefully than I got in. As I towel off, I find I'm smiling, relaxed, still achingly weary but I feel good and I dress quickly, stride out of the bathroom, steps hurried by a sudden craving for caffeine.

I stop by the bed, gently shake Dean awake, dodging the fist that swings wildly in my general direction easily.

"Wake up, Dean. Shower's all yours. I'm gonna run to the diner and get some coffee."

He mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like _'Morn'n sweetheart' _and practically falls off the bed, stumbling off into the bathroom without ever actually waking up. I smirk after him and stamp my way into my shoes, earning myself a reproachful _mheheh_ from the goat that has made itself comfortable on my bed. For a moment, it has the exact same look Dad always did when I dragged my shoes on that way as a child, and I can almost hear his exasperated irritation.

"_You're gonna break those damn shoes you keep puttin' 'em on like that Sammy, just like the last pair."_

Finally, he'd stopped buying me shoes altogether, though it had taken Dean's patient slaps to the back of my head each time I scrunched my feet into the battered sneakers to break me of the habit. Kind of. The goat bleats at me again with a self-satisfied grunt at the end as I sit on the bed and re-tie my shoes. My eyes narrow as I stare back at it.

"Just like freakin' Dad."

Shaking myself I head out, patting my pocket to make sure I've got a key before jogging across the road, suddenly filled with more energy than I quite know what to do with. Jigging around in the queue earns me a few strange looks, but I'm soon heading back out through the doors, laden with coffees and a large bag of donuts, brownies and pie.

Halfway across the road, I stop dead, riveted to the spot by the terrifying noise coming from our room. Some instinct makes me clutch tightly to breakfast as I lurch into a sprint, bursting through the door so hard it nearly comes off its hinges and the handle leaves a hefty dent in the wall. I'm two long strides into the room before I can actually stop, the fears of whatever god-awful creature feature had seemed to be chowing down on my screaming brother drowned by the greater horror. My hands finally lose their death-grip on the bags and cups and they fall to the ground, John Junior letting out an ecstatic bleat and scrambling out from his hiding place under the bed to start munching his way through cakes, pie, paper and all as I stand in the middle of the room, shell-shocked and traumatized for life by the sound of Dean Winchester yodeling at the top of his voice in the shower.

_**A/N: And that's a wrap. Looking back over this story has made me realize just how much I've changed, how much my writing's improved. There's things I'd kinda like to change in this one, but if I started that I'd never stop, and although it's – by a very long way – not the best thing I've ever written, I still really like it. It was fun, finding ways to make the boys yodel… and if anyone ever wants to borrow John Junior, he's always up for a change of scenery.**_

_**Thanks for the reviews! It's good to know you all enjoyed it as much as I did.**_

_**See you next time…**_

_**Cal**_


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